, to the
honor of all Jews, and worthy of a past, the glory of which is far
off, but everlasting."

And, as he steps from the tribune, amid the roar of "Hochs," and the
thunder of hands and feet and sticks, and the flutter of
handkerchiefs, with men precipitating themselves to kiss his hand, and
others weeping and embracing, be sure that no private ambition
possesses him, be sure that his heart swells only with the
presentiment of great events and with uplifting thoughts of the
millions who will thrill to the distant echo of this sublime moment.

What European parliament could glow with such a galaxy of intellect?
Is not each man a born orator, master of arts or sciences? Has not the
very caftan-Jew from the Carpathians published his poetry and his
philosophy, gallantly championing "The Master of the Name" against a
Darwinian world? Heine had figured the Jew as a dog, that at the
advent of the Princess Sabbath is changed back to a man. More potent
than the Princess, the Congress has shown the Jew's manhood to the
world. That old painter, whose famous Dance of Death drew for
centuries the curious to Bale, could not picture the Jew save as the
gaberdined miser, only dropping his money-bag at Death's touch. Well,
here is another sight for him--could Death, that took him too, bring
him back for a moment--these scholars, thinkers, poets, from all the
lands of the Exile, who stand up in honor of the dead pioneers of
Zionism, and, raising their right hands to heaven, cry, "If I forget
thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget its cunning!" Yes, the
dream still stirs at the heart of the mummied race, the fire quenched
two thousand years ago sleeps yet in the ashes. And if our President
forgets that the vast bulk of his brethren are unrepresented in his
Congress, that they are content with the civic rights so painfully
won, and have quite other conceptions of their creed's future, who
will grudge him this moment of fine rapture?

Or, when at night, in the students' _Kommers_, with joyful weeping and
with brotherly kisses, sages and gray-beards join in the _gaudeamus
igitur_, who shall deny him grounds for his faith that _juvenes sumus_
yet, that the carking centuries have had no power over our immortal
nation. "Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite
variety."

The world in which prophecies are uttered cannot be the world in which
prophecies are fulfilled. And yet when--at the wind-up of this
memorable meeti